


Dulce et decorum est.

by brilliantim



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Angst, I can't apologize enough, M/M, WWI!verse, World War I, also did I mention it's sad?, lots of blood and stuff so warning warning, sad as fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-05 23:30:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brilliantim/pseuds/brilliantim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What the hell are you doing? Come on?” he screamed, urging him with his arm to move.<br/>“I think I can hear something.” Enjolras replied. Before he had time to turn around, he definitely heard something. Something that made his blood turn to ice in his veins. Someone was calling for help.</p><p> <em>Grantaire.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Dulce et decorum est.

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo, this started with the prompt word "smoke" my friend Jess gave me on tumblr. Since I've spent the whole day flipping through my book of poetry for another fic, Dulce Et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen popped into my head (The line; Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! that is) and I got inspired and this stupid thing was given life. 
> 
> This is just awful and I am sorry. 
> 
> I am so very sorry.

**Dulce et decorum est.**

_Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,_  
 _Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed though sludge,_  
 _Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,_  
 _And towards our distant rest began to trudge._  
 _Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots._  
 _But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;_  
 _Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots_  
 _Of gas-shells dropping softly behind._

The smell was heinous although none of the boys could place it.  
“Okay, who farted?” Courfeyrac asked, and they all burst out laughing were they lay in a big collective heap, too exhausted to move. They had been on the go for a week straight and had just gotten back to camp, fortunately all still alive, although Bossuet was being nursed with a bad gunshot wound to the shoulder. They had been so tired they had practically been sleepwalking the entire way back and as soon as they reached their station in the trench, Combferre had collapsed against the wall, the others following suit. Now they were all tangled together, laughing as if they’d never heard anything funnier in their lives. But Enjolras was still standing, scrunching his nose up in disgust at the odor and worriedly staring into space. Something wasn’t right. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.  
“I think you should get back on your feet gentlemen.” He said seriously and the whole lot of them groaned in unison.  
“Come on Enj’, we’ve been on the move weeks.” Feuilly begged and Enjolras was just about to let it go when Bahorel, who’d been assigned first watch (after a lot of complaining) came running towards them, stumbling on something and falling into the mud in front of Enjolras feet. The Amis started laughing hysterically again but was cut off when Bahorel scrambled to his feet and grabbed onto Enjolras arm, breathing heavily.  
“Enjolras, something’s wrong, there’s smoke everywhere!”  
 _Smoke?_  
He climbed the ladder closest to them and peeked over the trench. Bahorel was right. A yellowish smoke, thick as fog, was slowly creeping closer to them. He turned to the left and saw that it had already reached the edge a little further away, edging closer and closer to where the Amis were half sleeping, half laughing. Now he knew what that smell was and a surge of panic welled up in his chest.

_Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling_  
 _Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,_  
 _But someone still was yelling out and stumbling_  
 _And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime. –_  
 _Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,_  
 _As under a green sea, I saw him drowning._  
 _In all my dreams, before my helpless sight_  
 _He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning._

“It’s mustard gas!” he shouted and jumped down from the ladder as his fellow soldiers, his friends, all scrambled to their feet with much difficulty, panicking as they tried to find helmets and masks and Enjolras tried to make sure they stayed calm but it was not an easy quest.  
“It’s coming from our left side so keep to the right and move inwards, it’s going to hit us here in a minute. Keep running, no matter what okay. Make sure you stay safe and keep track of each other. If we get separated we’ll meet up at basecamp.” He yelled as they all started heading towards safety. He clicked his own mask on, the pressure uncomfortable but necessary. He could hear Marius sniffling in front of him, always so emotional. But he thought he could hear something else as well. He slowed down before coming to a full stop, and Courfeyrac turned around.  
“What the hell are you doing? Come on?” he screamed, urging him with his arm to move.  
“I think I can hear something.” Enjolras replied. Before he had time to turn around, he definitely heard something. Something that made his blood turn to ice in his veins. Someone was calling for help.  


_Grantaire._

He knew it was true as soon as he’d thought it. He hadn’t seen Grantaire anywhere now that he thought of it. And Grantaire had gone straight to sleep when they had reached the camp, despite Enjolras ordering them to unpack and clean up first. He’d suspected Grantaire had been a bit drunk, as well as tired, always keeping his flask on him as if it was holy.  
“We forgot Grantaire.” He yelled to Courfeyrac, “You run ahead, I’ll get him!”  
“But-“  
 _“Go!”_  
He couldn’t leave him. There was no scenario in this war where Enjolras could picture himself abandoning Grantaire. And so he turned back and started running towards the yellow smoke of the mustard gas that had now reached their station, and soon enough he couldn’t see anything but his hand in front of him. Another call, closer to him, but much weaker than the last one, followed by a loud coughing fit.  
“Grantaire!” Enjolras yelled, fear holding a steady grip on his racing heart. “Grantaire can you hear me?”  
“Enjolras?” he wasn’t far away, Enjolras could tell. He started waving his hand in front of him, hoping to grab on to something.  
“I’m here, I’m here, where are you?”  
“Enjolras fuck, I- I can’t see.” Grantaire’s voice was weak and raspy, and he started coughing again.  
“It’s okay, it’s just—“ he saw a hand fly past his face, and suddenly he could see Grantaire in front of him, waving his arms around frantically as if he was a man drowning. “I’m here, take my hand!” he cried, and grabbed a hold of Grantaire who hissed quietly but held on for dear life as Enjolras started running with him back the way he’d come from.  
“I’m so-“ cough, “so sorry, Enjy.” Grantaire’s voice cracked as he apologized, and Enjolras just ran faster, pulling the other man along behind him with fierce determination.  
“It’s okay ‘Taire, just keep running.” He assured, and for a good fifteen minutes it was going fine, they were getting away from the gas and Enjolras could actually see it dispersing in front of him when Grantaire started stumbling a little too much. “Come on, just a little bit further, come on.”  
But after another five minutes of stumbling forwards, Grantaire’s hand slipped out of Enjolras’ and he heard the other man fall to the ground behind him. Doubling back, he leaned down, looking at a man who looked nothing like his lover. His face was distorted by blisters and his cheek covered in blood.  
“I can’t move anymore Enj, it hurts.” Grantaire sobbed, trying to sit up but failing.  
“I’m not gonna leave you here if that’s what you’re suggesting.” Enjolras said through gritted teeth and he swore he could hear Grantaire laughing through his sobs, before coughing again and going quiet. Enjolras knew he wasn’t dead, it didn’t happen that fast. Still he could feel his heart stopping at the sight, before shaking himself back into consciousness, because the danger was far from over. With a bit of difficulty he hoisted Grantaire over his shoulder, and Grantaire came back to life with a howl of pain. His entire body was probably covered in the burning blisters at this point, and Enjolras kept saying “sorry” over and over as he ran, albeit much slower than before. Half an hour later and he deemed it safe enough to put Grantaire down and remove his gasmask. He leaned down and pressed his lips hard against Grantaire’s forehead.  
“I’ll be right back ‘Taire, hang in there,” he whispered, clenching his jaw to keep the tears at bay as he straightened up and started running towards basecamp for aid.

_If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace_  
 _Behind the wagon that we flung him in,_  
 _And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,_  
 _His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin,_  
 _If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood_  
 _Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs_  
 _Bitten as the cud_  
 _Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -_  
 _My friend, you would not tell with such high zest_  
 _To children ardent for some desperate glory,_  
 _The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est_  
 _Pro patria mori._

It took Enjolras nearly an hour to get back to Grantaire, with Joly, Bahorel and Combferre in tow. They’d managed to get hold of a wagon after a lot of pleading with the lieutenants at camp and now they’d raced back to where Enjolras had left him. He lay there, panting as if every breath was a stab in his lungs. Enjolras got down on his knees if front of him, afraid to touch him because he knew it would hurt.  
“Grantaire, it’s me.” He said softly, forcing himself not to look away, even though he wanted to scream at the sight of him.  
“En-jo-ra-“ Grantaire sighed before coughing so hard blood started pouring out of his mouth.  
“We need to get him to the nurses station quickly,” Joly urged, and with a shared grimace of pain, Bahorel and Enjolras lifted a screaming Grantaire up and lay him down on the wagon. Combferre took the reigns, Bahorel joining him as Enjolras and Joly kept watching Grantaire.  
“It’s bad isn’t it?” Enjolras asked Joly, who leaned in to pry one of Grantaire’s swollen eyelids open. It proved almost impossible, and he was only met with whites when he finally managed. Grantaire hissed in pain, tears streaming down his face.  
“Yes.” Joly replied sternly, “It doesn’t look very good.”  
Enjolras turned his face away as his own face distorted in silent grief, a face he never let anyone see. He was the face of hope to them; he could not be allowed to falter.  
“I see.” he finally said as he’d composed himself enough to speak, looking back down at Grantaire, wishing he could take his hand. The wagon jolted, and Grantaire screamed again, his face going slack as he passed out from the pain.  
“And how do you feel?” Joly asked seriously, pointing at Enjolras hands when he was met by a confused look. Enjolras looked at his hands and found them covered in blisters, almost as bad as the ones on Grantaire’s ones. He hadn’t even noticed before, but he now could hardly move his fingers. He supposed he’d been quite exposed to the gas as well, and now that he started to think of it, his entire body was hurting. Still he did not care so much about it, he was too concerned about whether or not Grantaire would live through the night.

Thirteen days had passed and Grantaire showed no signs of recovery. Granted, he wasn’t dead, but he had hardly been able to stay awake for long enough to speak a single word either, the pain repeatedly pulling him out of consciousness. He woke up every single time he shifted, howling in pain, only to fade back into darkness. Enjolras never left his side. He was almost happy he’d been wounded too, giving him reason to stay in the nurse’s station instead of going back out into the battlefield. He did feel bad about not helping his friends, who’d all made it without a scratch and were now placed in another station closer to the frontlines. He worried about them constantly, and he corresponded with them daily through Joly who had also stayed behind to help nurse Grantaire and Enjolras. They’d placed Enjolras’s bed next to Grantaire’s, but he still found himself sitting next to Grantaire in the uncomfortable little plastic chair that was placed at his bedside. The only time he stayed in bed was when Joly literally dragged him into it and forced sleeping pills down his throat. He was just so scared that something would happen. That things would take a turn for the worse and he wouldn’t _be there_. Like he hadn’t been there when the smoke had descended upon them. It would not happen again.

Enjolras himself was healing pretty quickly, his skin now liberated from the blisters but still an awkward shade of pink and it was still itching so much he sometimes thought he was on fire. But he’d had a mask on and so his wounds were merely superficial. Grantaire had blisters in his throat, on his lungs, on the inside of his eyelids. Grantaire had a soaked bandage over his eyes to keep them cool. And Grantaire still coughed blood.  
“I’m so sorry I let this happen to you.” Enjolras cried into Grantaire’s open palm one night when even the medics had gone to sleep. Grantaire had stirred a little, grunting in pain and cupped Enjolras cheek for a second before falling back into an uncomfortable sleep.

Twenty days later, Grantaire was conscious for two hours straight, talking a little but mostly just listening as Enjolras told him of the things that had happened since he’d been injured. Told him the news he’d heard this morning, that Jehan wasn’t going to be able to make it home to Paris when the war was over, and they both cried together, hopelessness searing into their hearts. 

Twenty-two days later Grantaire could swallow some water without puking up half of it again. Joly looked hopeful and that made Enjolras hopeful. But that night blood was pouring from Grantaire’s mouth when he couldn’t stop coughing and Enjolras stayed up all night washing it away from his chin, hot tears rolling down his cheeks as he told Grantaire it would be fine, “it will all be fine”.

“He won’t make it.” Joly said to him on the twenty-fifth day, a look of grief etched onto his face.  
“You can’t know that.” Enjolras replied and was about to turn around and leave when Joly grabbed his arm, tears in his eyes.  
“I’m so sorry Enjolras.” His voice was barely a whisper and Enjolras blinked quickly before feeling his face crumbling, leaning his forehead against Joly’s shoulder and crying until he couldn’t cry anymore, Joly’s arms tights around his. When he’d finally composed himself he cleared his throat, twice.  
“How long?”  
“A day, two at the most.”

He got three. Enjolras was reading the newspaper out loud for Grantaire when he was suddenly interrupted.  
“Enj’ could you do me a favor?” Grantaire asked, and turned his head as if he was looking at Enjolras, even though the bandage still covered his eyes.  
“Anything Grantaire.” Enjolras vowed, leaning closer to the man he’d loved for over five years. When the war had only been a distant rumor and they’d all been schoolboys talking about justice and glory and patria in the back of a dim Parisian café. When Grantaire had been the single most annoying person he’d known, saying, “only idiots would willingly head out to a war, to fight for a country that doesn’t give a shit about them”. But when Enjolras had enlisted, so had Grantaire. And in reply to Enjolras surprised “why?” Grantaire had simply answered, “Where you go, I follow, Apollo.”

“Would you kiss me?” he asked, pouting his lips just so. Enjolras laughed quietly.  
“Won’t it hurt?”  
“Not as much as it would hurt in here,” Enjolras supposed Grantaire wanted to gesture to his heart, but finding the movement to painful to succeed, “if I died without having kissed you one last time.”  
And so Enjolras stood up from his plastic stool, placed his hand softly over Grantaire’s and leaned in. Strangely enough, Grantaire still smelled like Grantaire. Like earth and paper and wine and just, Grantaire. His lips, though swollen and chapped, still held the old familiar movements, moving slowly in synch with Enjolras as if this was what they were meant to do. Enjolras could taste the blood upon them and he wanted to lick the taste away. So he did. They kissed until Grantaire quietly hissed with pain and Enjolras realized he’d started squeezing Grantaire’s hand far too tight. He straightened up, his small smile mirrored on Grantaire’s lips.  
“Thanks.” He said, somehow managing to sound smug, “I didn’t know dying came with such benefits.”  
“Now’s not the time for jokes ‘Taire.” Enjolras sighed as he eased back down into the chair, leaning his forehead against Grantaire’s side. Grantaire chuckled.  
“How I wish I could’ve seen you right now.”  
“I’m glad you can’t. I’m a mess.”  
“You always looked your best when you were a little out of it.” Grantaire sighed fondly. Then he coughed for several minutes, giving out small moans of pains as his lungs slowly collapsed inside of him. Enjolras clenched his jaw together.  
“I’m so sorry.” Enjolras whispered as he grabbed Grantaire’s hand and pressed soft, wet kisses to him palm. “I’m sorry this happened to you. I’m sorry I dragged you into this mess. I’m just—“  
“Hey. Enjolras, listen. It’s okay. I’m okay.”  
“How can you even say that?”  
“Because, my love, dulce et decorum est,” a wide smile spread across Grantaire’s lips, “pro patria mori.”  
“What a load of bullshit.” Enjolras muttered and the laughter that erupted from Grantaire caused another coughing fit.  
“I thought that was you motto?” he finally asked, his voice having gone much weaker.  
“It’s all a big lie.”  
“Perhaps you’re right. Do you remember what I used to answer when you belted out those words at the Musain a lifetime ago?”  
Enjolras smiled as he gripped Grantaire’s hand a little too tight.  
“Sed dulcius pro patria vivere, et dulcissimum pro patria bibere. Ergo, bibamus pro salute patriae.”  
“I’d die for a drink right now. No pun intended.” Grantaire sighed, and gave a small cough. Enjolras pressed his cheek against Grantaire’s hand and watched as the rise and fall of his chest slowed until it was hardly noticeable.  
“I love you Grantaire.” He whispered, and squeezed his hand, which squeezed back for a second before Grantaire stilled and breathed no more.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I can not apologize enough.
> 
> Also, if you want to know and haven't googled it already;  
> Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori = It is sweet and dignified to die for the homeland.
> 
> Sed dulcius pro patria vivere, et dulcissimum pro patria bibere. Ergo, bibamus pro salute patriae. = But it is sweeter to live for the homeland, and the sweetest to drink for it. Therefore, let us drink to the health of the homeland.
> 
> (Did not even have to make that up, it's right there on wikipedia.)
> 
> *comforting hugs to all*


End file.
